Unexpected
by Stormy Grey Skies
Summary: Sylar's finally broken Peter, but it's not in the way he expected. Either way, he relishes it. AU, Slash, slightly dark, some language, generally just a random oneshot.


Sylar understood how things worked. After all, it was his gift – the original one, the one sewn deep into his DNA. After years and more endless years of going through life knowing exactly how it works, he'd begun to find everything boring. His expectations were almost always spot-on, and that gets old real fast. He hadn't found anything truly unexpected in a long, long while.

But Sylar…he'd never expected the single-minded hunger with which he systematically tracked down his archenemy and made his life a living hell. One that the perfect little _hero _couldn't escape – not since he'd regained their shared ability to regenerate. He'd never expected to have his attention captured for so long on a single living body. Never expected to hurt and toy with without the ultimate goal of the kill. Never expected to choke the man to the point of unconsciousness only to let the life come flooding back in to those irresistible eyes (glance long enough at an empath's eyes, and it's impossible to find your way back again).

But above all, he'd never expected Peter to like it.

Because he'd broken him; he'd driven the man insane by killing everyone and anyone the Petrelli had ever made contact with. By randomly dropping in to taunt, smack around, and ultimately best his rival. By torturing him psychologically by rendering all his important little _ideals_ moot. But mostly by using the faint hint of tension to his advantage. He'd built it up until he'd full-on grind on the guy, whispering hot and heavy seduction in his ear, instead of beating his knuckles raw. He'd started out with subtle innuendo, and let it develop until they ended up fucking on the floor of Peter's apartment.

If he thought about it, he'd probably say that was Peter's final breaking point. He'd been practically driven to the absolute raving-mad brink of insanity already, really. And as he'd come – shakes running through his entire body – a single tear had fallen down the his face, and he'd screamed raw and guttural. A sound that tore through even Sylar's gut.

That was right around the time the killer had finally killed Claire. Permanently. After all, he'd found a much better distraction.

It was all downhill for Peter after that. He'd fallen. They all do, eventually. Everyone he'd ever cared about was long since dead and cool in the ground, along with almost all of the rest of humanity. Apart from a few people who maybe had a similar ability (not that either one come across one – people lived in small isolated pockets now, and Adam had long since died), Sylar was all Peter had left.

And so Petrelli had submitted and let himself become a plaything. He'd willingly dropped to his knees with his throat bared to display the worn leather collar Sylar had originally tossed him as a test (he hadn't actually thought Peter had been so serious or committed to the whole thing). And he'd done it night after night, day after day– sometimes even out in 'public'.

Not that Sylar was complaining. No, it was far too satisfying to be able to take and take and take from such a willing and delectable participant whenever he had the slightest fancy. Far too satisfying to yank the pet's head back fast enough to just almost break it's neck, by the longer floppier hair that he liked. To see a look of complete submission coated across a dark, twisted little broken thing in those entrancing eyes. And _much _too satisfying to inflict whatever pain he wanted and still have it moan and whimper, loud, like his own personal whore, when he stuck his cock down its through rough and sudden enough to make him choke and roll his eyes back. Though, of course, he love it all the more that he could bend his toy over some hard surface and fuck hard and fast, tearing up his insides whenever he felt like it, then leave the superhuman senselessly lying in a puddle of his own spit, cum, and blood.

Most of all, he loved that he was the one that brought down the _great_ Peter Petrelli.

That _he_ was the one doing depraved and _unspeakable_ things to that bastard Nathan Petrelli's baby brother. Using him until they were both utterly and bonelessly _spent_, then throwing the warm mess of shivering boy away from him by that _collar_. The one making him _bleed_ and _hurt_ and _whimper_, all the while laughing at the pathetic, broken mess of a human being he'd made. Look how the good have fallen, he'd snicker to himself. _Weak._

_Then again, he was the one who had never been able to bring himself to add the final shattering touch to his masterpiece in destruction – walk away._


End file.
